


to think the stars are beautiful

by utsu



Series: Between the Trees [5]
Category: Naruto
Genre: F/M, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 16:36:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11581965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/utsu/pseuds/utsu
Summary: SasuHina Prompt: These stars are nothing compared to the ones I’ve seen in your eyes.





	to think the stars are beautiful

 She moves in echoes of starlight, graceful and fractured in the spectrum of existence.

He watches her sometimes, as she interacts with others. It’s easy to find her in a room, or on the street, or anywhere. He wonders sometimes why it’s easy, but it’s insignificant, and it doesn’t matter, and he has other more pressing things to do than wonder.

Except—

The way she speaks is a lilting cadence he hears in crowds, though she speaks no louder than silken softness, and it’s catching. Sometimes when their eyes meet he wants to look through her, like he does with so many others, like he always has. And yet he meets resistance in the steel of her yielding glance, wrapped up and ensnared in the tourniquet of her watchfulness.

It doesn’t hurt, though, and that stands out.

At first, when he notices his attention so fixed on her, a target aimed heavenward but etched squarely on her smile, it bothers him. It’s unlike him, to lose focus so easily, or at all.

He doesn’t like it.

Until he does.

 

✧

 

He trains at midnight, when the nightmares of the past are surface-fresh and crunch the knobs of his spine straight through to his lungs; breathlessness, he deems, becomes a constant companion he can no longer tolerate.

The moonlight is not his only companion as he walks back towards his compound, shoulders slumped and sore, hands tucked into pockets, torn knuckles snagging against fabric. He takes one hand out as he hears an owl overhead, flapping and cooing, and studies the charred ash in the dips between the battered wasteland of his knuckles with an indifferent eye. The bleeding had stopped.

Cicadas call incessantly, a thriving hum to prevent silence in the night, and Sasuke feels comforted, only slightly. This, he thinks, never changes. This, he can count on.

The calling of the cicadas.

He stuffs his hand back into his pocket, eyes heavy. Clouds shift uneasily overhead, as though cued in to the underlying storm in his veins, crackling electricity in every pulse.

His pace is steady, his gait unhurried, and his mind clear. He has not thought about the girl for hours, and he doesn’t know how he feels about that. He’s long since lost the petty refusal to accept that something about her catches his attention, and has even come to accept that maybe it’s not something, but everything.

He turns a corner and there’s her compound, only slightly smaller than his own, still entirely too vast. But hers is filled to bursting with life and love and _family_ , and all that’s behind his walls is a gathering of bitter loneliness, and rage. The faint echoes of families and lives being torn apart, and the charred remains of homes for proof.

He doesn’t glance at the walls as he passes them, keeps his heavy eyes forward, tries not to hear the echo of laughter coming from the other side.

He’s ten paces from the entrance when the doors open, and a woman slips through the gap, laughter curling through her throat like smoke, heavy, sultry, addictive.

Sasuke does not turn or falter; his steps are steady and his heart only ticks once out of place, something autonomous and out of his control, something he can’t be held accountable for.

“Sasuke-kun?”

Sasuke stops. He doesn’t turn, or respond, or look back, but he stops. And he wonders how well she knows him, just from cursory glances and his association with Naruto and Sakura—he wonders if she knows how telling it is, that he stopped at all.

“It’s late,” she says, and her voice grows closer, until she’s there beside him, in front of him, more beautiful than anything human has a right to be. “Are you okay?”

He doesn’t respond, because the answer and question both are trivial enough. Instead, he watches.

The way her eyes shift under the moonlight, dancing like flames; the way her lips purse in concern, for him, for him; the way she lifts a hand in front of her chest, the delicacy of her wrist and the strength in her idly clenched fist. It’s a gesture of weakness, of self-consciousness, and it should bore him.

It draws him in.

He wars against his own desires for the first time in a long time; he’s so used to taking what he wants and finding a way to spin the result in the village’s favor. This is how he manipulates the system. This is how he operates as a free agent, even while tied to a namesake he no longer feels enchanted with.

When was the last time he denied himself something significant? Something at all?

He denies himself this, because of that clenched fist, that sweet mouth, those star fire eyes.

“It’s late,” he echoes her earlier sentiment, voice threaded with disuse. She nods her head, understanding the implication and the subtle command underneath it, and she smiles.

She smiles.

“Ah,” she hums, and her fist falls back to her side. The tension in her shoulders falls away, and comfort in his presence replaces it in smooth arcs of skin and bone. He watches this as if from a cliff’s edge, and he waits for the ground to start crumbling out from beneath him.

“Stay safe,” she says, in lieu of anything ordinary that anyone else might’ve said, like _have a good night_ , or _see you around_. He wonders for a moment what it would be like to be the only target of her concern, the only person those eyes filched of breath and tension.

Sasuke turns from her and heads back in the direction of his compound, ignoring the fact of how he’d never needed to walk down this way, anyways.

He feels her gaze on his shoulder blades until he walks out of sight, and then and only then does he allow himself to breathe easy.

 

✧

 

Sasuke trains with Naruto all morning and deep into the afternoon, until both of them are panting and sweating and cursing, and then they train some more. Sakura arrives soon after they call it quits, lying yards away from each other, each on their back. One pace behind her, partially obscured in her shadow, is Hinata.

“Hello!” Sakura calls, and there’s amusement in her voice. “Thanks for waiting, jerks.”

“Sakura-chan,” Naruto groans, forcing himself into a sitting position. Sasuke does the same, if only to dispel the vulnerable image of him lying flat on his back. He bends one knee up and rests his wrist upon it, the other leg outstretched, dark eyes watching the girls approach. Naruto calls, “You took too long!”

Sasuke watches Sakura turn to Hinata, elbowing her lightly in the side with a jaunty laugh. “Looks like it’s you and me,” she says, and it’s a joke but Sasuke wonders instantly what it would be like if it was he and Hinata, instead.

He watches her glance between him and Naruto, and his eyes narrow. He wonders about her feelings for Naruto, unveiled and admitted to so long ago, when the village had been destroyed under Pain’s whims. He knows Naruto had not given her an answer, and he knows why, but that’s not his business. Naruto’s feelings are not his business.

Hinata’s, however…if he is to own up to his own feelings, those that circle Hinata like prey upon every chance meeting, then he believes himself entitled to understanding her feelings.

If he is to court her—

Hinata’s eyes flicker from Naruto to him, and there’s a warm, dulled recognition there that he can’t quite make sense of—something soft and muted around the edges, but sharp and direct at its core. There’s concern, again. He’s starting to find comfort in that, unwillingly so.

“Hinata,” he greets, and it’s uncharacteristic enough that both Sakura and Naruto flinch, before turning their stares to him wonderingly. Sakura’s gaze is critical, of that he knows without even having to look. Not because of any misconstrued feelings for him, but _concern_ for Hinata—and there it is again, this emotion of caring, this example of protectiveness for loved ones.

Concern.

“Sasuke-kun,” Hinata greets, without flinching. She smiles kindly, blinking once as she takes in his bare torso. He’s sculpted and hard, every line of him barbed and sharp-edged, but right now he’s covered in bruises and cuts and her eyes trace every one of them like a palpable touch.

He shivers, and his heart starts to race.

He can’t remember his heart every responding to anything less than a fight with this level of adrenaline. It’s _heady_.

“Do you need medical attention?” Hinata asks him, and Sakura heads straight towards Naruto, not giving him a choice. Naruto continues to look on in confused curiosity, baffled with the comfort Sasuke displays in front of Hinata. Sasuke doesn’t answer her, because he’s not going to ask for it. He has his pride.

She approaches him anyways, only just this side of wary, prey stepping into the reach of a predator. Sasuke knows his eyes are still Sharingan bright, but he doesn’t diffuse them, because in this light she moves like wind, soft and subtle and unexpectedly powerful.

She kneels at his side and her hands are on his skin in the next moment, and the chills that race down his spine are not from pain or surprise or unease, but pleasure. Such a gentle touch, he thinks wonderingly, as her hands slide from cut to cut, fingers palpating lightly against bruises, feeling for underlying fractures. Her hair skims across his skin and lifts with static, anticipating the lightning racing through his veins, just under the surface.

“Nothing too bad,” she says, voice low and close, unbearably close. The urge to kiss her is a rising temptation, one he tamps down almost angrily, eyes growing sharp and hard and lethal. She doesn’t even flinch, merely glances up at his expression with some wonder, and asks, “Does it hurt?”

Concern.

“No,” he lies, and his heart keeps banging against the cage of his ribs, trying to fight it’s way out, just so that it can reach her.

He doesn’t know how to let himself reach her.

 

✧

 

It’s become routine to walk past the Hyuuga compound on his way to and from home. He allows himself to admire the fortress, now, to inspect the high, sturdy walls and appreciate that they offer some protection, if minimal, to the inhabitants inside.

He doesn’t usually like routines, or habits, because they make for an easy target. If the enemy knows your patterns, they know where your weak points are, and they know when and how to strike most effectively. Sasuke has never allowed himself to have a routine, not since his family—

He lets himself have this.

And for it, he’s rewarded at times with the sight of Hinata coming or going, depending on the day. Usually she greets him, often from behind, jogging to catch up to him. She’s reticent, but perceptive, and she moves around his silence and his tension with a dancer’s poise. She’s gentle in inquiry and response, even when he doesn’t give her much to go on.

He’s trying to get better at that.

Usually she’s a subtly effervescent presence at his side—and oh, how he’s grown accustomed to her there—but no one can sustain constant happiness. No one, not even Naruto, not even Hinata.

He does not run into her outside of her compound today, and he pushes away the disappointment that settles low and heavy in his gut because of it. He shoves his hands deeper in his pockets and continues towards the training grounds, wondering if Naruto would want to spar later that evening.

He feels her before he sees her, and it’s jarring. Something about her energy quakes, unusually unsteady, and his feet move quicker before he’s even aware of it. He crests the hill overlying the fields, and finds her in utter stillness, watching the sun rise over the mountains.

She doesn’t move, or acknowledge his presence, and that’s jarring, too.

He waits until he’s stepped up beside her, close enough that her shoulder almost touches his, almost.

He doesn’t say a word, only glances at her expression, the redness of her cheeks and the glassy wetness of her eyes. There are lines of strain he’s unused to on her face, and when she turns to glance up at him, she smiles through them, and he aches.

“Sasuke-kun,” she says, and it’s greeting and gratitude both. Sasuke thinks with finality that he doesn’t deserve her, but he’s going to keep her, and it’s easy, now, to acknowledge it. He tilts his head at her, eyes trailing critically over her strained features, the slight tremble of her supple lips.

She does not apologize for her tears or her weakness—and it is a weakness. He’s already planning ahead, though, developing measures and countermeasures to protect her against this disadvantage, to protect her from anyone who might try to use it to harm her. He wants her to be free to express this weakness without worrying about her safety, and this—this is something he can do. For her, and for him, too.

“It’s difficult,” she whispers, eyes flickering between his for just a moment, searching for something he’s uncertain she finds. She turns back to the sunrise, the way the sky bares itself in hues of soft welcomes, and she says, “It’s difficult to fail those you love.”

Sasuke thinks of her father, strict and displeased, and remembers the scowl of his own father, and the tone of his voice over Sasuke’s head.

_Disappointing_ , he’d say, every time.

This is something he knows from experience: “It’s not going to get easier.”

“No,” she agrees, and she crosses her arms over her chest, holding herself steady. The sunrise catches in her eyes and holds, and Sasuke spills forward into her. He moves carefully, one hand coming to rest delicately over her nape, fingers twining through her hair. He ducks his head low, rests his forehead against her temple, and breathes.

“I will get stronger,” she whispers, a stunningly intuitive reflection of the words he wants to say, but won’t. He closes his eyes and they stand together, facing the heat of a new day.

She leans into his touch.

 

✧

 

When she laughs, the tension inside of him dissipates. She finds him hilarious, somehow, and he doesn’t understand it yet, but he loves it.

He loves her.

He brought her to the training grounds and challenged her to a spar, and she laughed. He hadn’t meant for it, but he was rewarded all the same. Her joy is so easy to coax to the surface, splashed across her cheeks in satin rose, wrinkles appearing next to her eyes. He pins her to the grass far too easily for his taste, and clucks his tongue at her. She doesn’t take offense, but she does smirk, and she almost manages to incapacitate his left arm in his moment of distraction.

She knows she distracts him now, but she still doesn’t know why. Clueless, he thinks, whirling to evade a rapid series of gentle fist maneuvers. The dark arc of her hair forms a halo that makes him think of black holes, and the all-encompassing pull they encourage from anything within sight. He feels drawn to her similarly, except that he’s willing, and wanting.

He pins her again, frowning down at her, and she laughs quietly beneath him.

“You’re too fast,” she whispers, blinking slowly. “I can’t catch up.”

He leans down until his lips are a ghost of a breath away from her earlobe, just _barely_ touching her skin, and he says, “ _Try_.”

And she does, until the sun tucks itself away behind the mountains and the moon makes her ascent into the night sky. She never manages to pin him down, not once, and a petty sense of satisfaction courses through him.

He thinks, _this is how I’ve felt for so long_.

Unable to pin her down.

She blows a frustrated puff of air up at her bangs the last time he pins her, with the moon directly at his back, and Hinata entirely immersed in his shadow. He doesn’t get off of her right away, this time. He gazes at her unflinchingly, eyes tracing over the elegance of her features, not the most beautiful part of her because it pales in comparison to her gentleness, her compassion.

Her love.

“The stars are beautiful tonight,” she whispers, and she licks her bottom lip. It’s not deliberate, he knows, but it’s distracting enough even without intent.

It takes him off guard, and she flips their positions with too much ease, because he allows it.

She laughs triumphantly, the most beautiful and joyous creature he’s ever seen and felt and loved, and he loves her. She’s every shade of faith and joy that he’s never allowed himself to hope for, and she’s gentle, even with him, especially with him. It doesn’t seem to matter that he’s as strong as the strongest shinobi in the village, or that he has a past dipped in shadows, edged in blood and hatred.

She _sees_ him, all of him, the pearl of light in the shadows of his eyes, and the tumultuous storm of black clouds, perpetually roiling beneath the surface of his skin. She sees it all, and she stays, and she laughs, and she loves.

He gazes up at her with the backdrop of stars behind her, and it’s suddenly easy, in this moment, to find the words and say them. He doesn’t like to speak when he doesn’t have to, doesn’t like to mince words.

But she thinks the stars are beautiful.

She thinks the stars are beautiful, but she doesn’t know how each and every one of them is candlelight to her wildfire, how each and every star pales in comparison to the gentleness with which she approaches life, and the flame of love that magnifies the shine of her eyes. Her reach and her charm and her light impress him more than the fact of stars, and he doesn’t feel uncomfortable putting this into words.

He says, “These stars are nothing compared to the ones I’ve seen in your eyes.”

And he turns them, gently, until she’s under him again, their chests resting together. He feels the sudden rhythm of hers, sharper than it had been a moment before, and it makes him smile. This catches her off guard—he doesn’t smile often, not with his lips. He leans down and presses this smile to her lips so she can taste it, and name it, and keep it. He tugs lightly at her lower lip, tongue moving forward to wet the crest of it, and nothing, _nothing_ compares to the way she makes him feel whole, in a way he hasn’t felt since he was a child with a family and a home.

He pulls back only slightly, and the words are getting easier to say, because they’re important, because they’re for her, and he’s _happy_.

He watches the way her eyes shift and turn, pools of incandescent light, and he remembers those times when she had known nothing of him but the concern laced on her expression whenever she saw him. He watches her watch him, and he hopes she feels the way the world moves under them, around them, with their hearts as the center.

“There is nothing in this universe so beautiful as you,” he says, “and I’m lucky to know it.”

Hinata’s lips tremble, and her hands come up to rest gently upon his cheeks. She pulls him in until she can kiss his upper lip, her eyes squeezed shut, her lips curling slowly into a smile. She kisses him once, twice, and then pulls him forward until their foreheads rest together. When she finally speaks, it’s against his lips, so that the words are his to keep.

“I love you,” she breathes, “and I’m happy.”


End file.
